An unrelenting wind

blustered and bubbled

under our skins.

“The kind that grinds

and frays your nerves,”

you’d wryly smiled

as we hiked up some scree

an uneasy feeling ran down

my spine, just before

I caught your cry

rolling downhill, head over heels,

like a rag doll.

My stomach flipped

as I careened to find

one leg wrapped around

a rock, strained lines,

whitened lips, wildly staring

eyes - a trapped doe.

I freed your limb,

made a splint, inwardly

begged to take

your pain, leaving you there with water and makeshift shade.

Stretched braided bonds,

twanged taut heartstrings.

“Don’t be long!” you’d called

between clenched teeth.

While I sought help,

you faced yourself.

Years on, fetching radishes

and lettuce from our garden bed,

you limp and halt.

Without warning, your swirling

eyes and deepest windswept

smile burst out.